


Bird in Hand

by Walor



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bane doesn't threaten Bruce with killing Alfred, City of Bane, Jason is extremely sassy, M/M, Not Beta Read: We Die Like Men, Rape/Non-con Elements, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28644606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: Jason expects his evening to be as boring as any other running the newly acquired Iceberg Lounge. Turns out, he should have made a contingency plan for masked assholes that decided to make him Bruce's newest Lois Lane. He's not a very good damsel in distress.
Relationships: Bane/Jason Todd
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	Bird in Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scandalsavage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/gifts).



Jason is incredibly unlucky.  
  
He gets it, ok. It’s a rather redundant statement. The boy who lived calling himself unlucky. Does he even get to use that name, ironically or not? It’s technically true, he is alive and he should not be, but it took a while to get to the “and then he lived” part. Perhaps “Night of the living dead” would be a more accurate description. Or does he have to be more “undead” than he is right now?  
  
To be fair, however, Jason feels like he is. Though anyone might feel the same way if they too were buried underneath an enormous ice sculpture and half a ceiling. He should have melted down that eyesore ages ago. Live and learn. Live, die, live again but fail to learn.  
  
Aside from being partially crushed underneath several tons of ice and steel, maybe some drywall too, Jason can still think clearly enough to internally bitch about how cold his lower body is. From the ice, of course, unless a blood clot already worked its way into his spine. That would be bad. Even worse than the shit piled up on his back.  
  
How did it end up there again? Fuck, everything beyond three seconds ago is fuzzy.  
  
Iceberg Lounge, yes, that’s where he is. Ok. That’s easy enough to identify from his surroundings. Dozens of ice-themed decor lying on their sides, shattered, or half-burnt from an explosion. The cause of their demise is a little harder to recall. Fuzzy, pain-tinged memories are half-buried beneath scattered thoughts of adrenaline-fueled panic. As expected when you’re, as said, buried underneath the rubble. The only little detail that seems to continually rear its head back into Jason’s muddled confusion.  
  
Something wet rolls down his face from his forehead. It creeps down his skin, warm and slick, before following the divot of his eye-socket and spreading over his pupil. What he sees, besides the irritation of something in his eye, is red. Blood.  
  
Ok. No cowl on his face. As far as he can tell no remnants of it either. He wasn’t Red Hood when the explosion went off. So, that leaves two possibilities. Either he is just an unfortunate casualty in some dick-measuring contest between Bruce and some other costumed Gothamite or someone deliberately chose to fuck Jason Todd’s shit up. Neither are extremely inviting options because both leave him trapped and at the mercy of some rather giant ignoramus.  
  
Speaking of giants, beneath the groaning of the now partially concave lounge are heavy footfalls. Even with the ringing in his ears and the partial deafness from said explosion Jason can make out the type of boots, combat most likely Belleville steel toe, and that the owner has a slight limp on his left leg.  
  
 _At least,_ he thinks, _it’s not Italian pointed toe._ _  
__  
_The footsteps grow closer, echoing off the still-standing walls as the stranger circles around Jason and the rubble. After a moment the shoes come in to view first. Jason is glad to see he’s right, black Belleville boots. God, he’s good.  
  
That’s about as far as the good feelings get to vibe. The shoes themselves are big. Size, God, do they even make size 37? 40? He’s starting to sound like a shoe fetishist at this point. He’s not, ok, he just likes patrolling in specific brands of shoes, and sometimes the tread on the bottom throws his whole patrol route off-  
  
“ _Are you awake?_ ” Bigfoot asks. Jason slowly tracks his eyes up bulging thighs and massive shoulders. “ _Good._ ”  
  
“You know,” Jason wheezes. Wow, being crushed really makes it hard to get out a smartass remark. “Most people knock with their hands. Not several pounds of C4.”  
  
Bane stares down at him, mask impassive. Is this what it feels like to be on the other side of the Red Hood cowl? At least frown you jackass, let him know he struck a nerve. “ _If the first explosion had not killed you, I doubt this one would either.”_ _  
__  
_“Aren’t you supposed to be setting fire to dictators’ tennis courts in Santa Prisca right now? Gotham’s still recovering from the last revolution.” Bane merely tilts his head a fraction to the left in response. “Ok, so it wasn’t a revolution but you have to give Oz some credit. He built such a cute little club before I came in and ran it to the ground. Figuratively, I think you just took care of the literal.”  
  
“ _I have not come for revolution.”_ _  
__  
_“Yeah, ok, doubt that but whatever helps you sleep at night.” Does Bane sleep? He must. Unless all those dosings of Venom completely eradicate the need for sleep like 12 shots of pure espresso does. If not, it has to be difficult with all of the tubing attached to the back of his head. Unless Bane is a stomach sleeper. Would it be impolite to inquire about such things while in the middle of what no doubt will become a diatribe about capitalistic greed and societies being prisons to the working class? Jason won’t argue with that, Bane go off, but things are a little uncomfortable right now-  
  
Jason startles at the loud snap in front of his face. Bane pulls back his hand, crouching down. “ _Do not fly away from me now, little one.”_ _  
__  
_“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Jason would wave back at the rubble, _do you see this shit? Do you see it?_ But seeing as both of his arms are pinned down, he only manages what must be a suitable bemused expression. Because, in the next moment, Bane is reaching out to grip the edge of the roof currently on top of him. Without so much as a grunt, Bane flips it off Jason in a cloud of ash and drywall.  
  
Should he say thank you? Seems rather counterintuitive to the punch Jason throws at Bane’s throat once the rumble is gone. Not that it seems to throw Bane off. He merely raises one massive hand, capturing Jason’s within his own, and simply lifts Jason entirely off the ground. This comes as a surprise (though it shouldn’t because Bane literally just tossed aside half a building like a particularly annoying Jehovah’s witness flyer) that wakes Jason up just enough to kick. His normal boots, along with the rest of his Kevlar armor, are missing as well as one dress shoe. Now, there are probably very few people that can say, accurately, how it feels to kick Antonio Dorrance, Bane, that have actually done so. Mostly because people who kick Bane tend to die and those who said they’ve kicked Bane are too alive to be in the former category. This means Jason is now his own little C category, unless, that is, he dies soon after and is placed in category A.  
  
Because he kicks Bane with his foot only covered by a slim black sock to say it hurts would be an incredible understatement. The only thing he can even think to compare it to is stubbing your foot on the corner of a table in the middle of the night. It is extremely uncomfortable.  
  
Bane doesn’t seem to notice the kick Jason connects with his side. Nor, for that matter, does he notice the second or third, merely regarding Jason’s scrunched up face as he sputters curses towards Bane’s no doubt metahuman of a mother. The cursing ends up being what strikes with devastating accuracy, a surprise, because after Jason finishes his sentence Bane tosses him halfway across the dining hall of the former Iceberg Lounge, no surprise.  
  
It hurts, definitely, _horribly._ Landing alights a plethora of sharp and fiery jolts of agony that spread out along his side. A few of his ribs must be fractured, there is far too much pain spider webbing beneath his skin to be anything less. Rendered breathless and curling in on himself, as much as he can--still fragile from the explosion--all he can do is watch Bane saunter over. There, now, Jason can see beneath the white haze that clouds his vision is the limp he heard before. It’s indistinctive, barely noticeable on this mountain of a man, but there, a little spot of tenderness. _Weakness._ _  
__  
_“ _Are you calm, little one?”_ _  
__  
_The answer is a resounding no. Jason says nothing. Waits until Bane gets close enough to grab him by the back of his shirt and pick him up. It’s far too easy to take advantage of Bane’s desire of emasculation through brute strength, once Jason’s off the ground far enough he lashes out. The kick this time, to Bane’s bad leg, smack in the center of one fat thigh, finally gets a reaction. There is no scream, no angry yell, just a great shudder that reactively releases the hold on Jason’s shirt.  
  
Jason drops, cat-like on his feet, and runs toward the nearest exit his memory can recall. Bane is a lot less likely to play nice now. Whatever the reason he decided to blow up the Lounge and go after Jason while he was keeping up the charade as a law-abiding long lost son gets a pin in it. Revisit later, optimal time being when Jason has both shoes on.  
  
Bane is not too happy about being taken advantage of. As Jason runs over broken glass, ice, and brick, the heavy, crashing footfalls of Bane are not far behind. He gets a bit further than he expects, out into a clearing away from precarious remnants of the Lounge ready to fall at Bane’s sneeze or metallic rumble. Not safe enough, however, to hide behind some pile of rubble to outwit Santa Prisca’s beloved genius. Jason hardly has a second to decide which idea is worse before he falls. Or simply, Bane grabs a piece of rebar and throws it at Jason’s feet. He goes down, hard.  
  
The pain is immense, all-encompassing. Jason manages to snap free from the throbbing only when Bane grabs his entire skull with one hand, lifting him off the floor.  
  
“ _That was not a very smart decision.”_ _  
__  
_Jason wheezes, bloody spittle covering the front of Bane’s mask. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, huh?”  
  
Having a sense of humor seems to be out of Bane’s possession. Heaving Jason over his shoulder, he marches through the lounge, merely breaking through piles of the various building parts with casual indifference. Jason would comment on the irony of the situation and perhaps pepper in a few loaded questions to find out just why Bane’s decided to pay him a visit, guns blazing, but his head hurts far too much to be discreet. So, seeing as there is nothing to do besides hang, he talks. Once a Robin always a Robin.  
  
“You know, it’s rather impolite to show up without an invitation. This is a very exclusive club.” Rubble shifts beneath Bane’s feet. In front of him, or under him to be exact, Jason can feel the tubing that runs beneath Bane’s Kevlar armor that is attached to his small tank of Venom. Maybe, if he’s able to distract Bane long enough, he can cause a leak. It would take some time but the interrupted flow of Venom wouldn’t be able to mute the pain Bane is obviously suffering.  
  
He just has to get a knife. Lucky for him, Jason Peter Todd is about as big of a knife aficionado as Victor Zsasz. His knife is currently burning a hole in his back pocket, the once unremarkable, light weight now as definite as a brick.  
  
“Come on. Where did you hear about us? Google? Yelp? Your family friend? We do discounts for those who recommend five people to our club. I was lying about the exclusivity thing, hell, we let any costumed madmen off the street at this point.” Jason reaches his hand back, up, sliding along the seam down the center of his suit jacket. Come on, Bane, give him something to work with. “Which means you didn’t have to bomb the place. Unless you’re trying to get someone’s attention. I have to say there are other, meaningful ways to do so.”  
  
Bane rumbles. For a second, Jason thinks the man is about to combust in an enormous splatter of blood and performance-enhancing drugs, ending Jason in the most absurd and humiliating way possible. Then he realizes, to his own shock and surprise, the bastard is fucking _laughing._ _  
__  
_“ _There are other ways to send a message. I intend to send a very important one.”_ _  
__  
_Which bodes great on the cryptic language scale, falls right into the category of “Oh-Fuck-Someone’s-in-a-Post-Lazarus-Revival-Mood.” Something Jason has a lot of experience with you see, he was the one that created that subcategory. It says so in the fine print, created by furious and betrayed Jason Todd formerly “The Dead Robin.” Jason huffs, slowly slipping his hand into his back pocket.  
  
“Oh yeah? Who’s the addressee? Jim Gordon? Carmine Falcone? Kim Kardashian? I’ve tried the third, it’s going to take a lot more than blowing up a criminal’s club. Trust me.”  
  
 _“You talk far too much. You will see soon.”_ Good, fantastic, glad to see Bane is still talking out of his ass for a mouth. For once Jason wants to deal with a dumb villain who just wants to see the world burn for human beings’ arrogance in the creation of mayonnaise. Now that would be a villain worth listening to. No more of these pseudointellectuals that sound like the walking personification of r/iamverysmart.  
  
Pity party over, Jason feels his fingers circle around the hilt of his pocket knife. Careful, he starts to pull it back down, thinking devious thoughts of all the ways he can puncture Bane’s Venom supply. He’s going to get doused, which, all things considered, he would rather avoid having one more thing land upon his person. There are far too many open wounds, not to mention his naked face, that risk exposure to Venom fumes and fluid. Lazarus water had been enough to drive him over the edge of emotional instability into full-blown psychosis of dueling rage and grief. There is no telling how many drug-peddling mafiosos that would end up with their ends in a stinky gym bag by the time the Venom was out of his system.  
  
Listen, he can make that joke, ok? That is his post-traumatic stress disorder coping mechanism, self-deprecation.  
  
However, age-old wisdom rings true in this situation. Rather be shot running than forced into the back of a car, just replace bullets with liquid super-soldier serum, and then it makes a little more sense. Dropping his arm completely down, he pulls his hand back, far enough so he can land a decent strike to do some damage. Then he throws his arm down-  
  
Only for it to get smacked aside by the interrupting arc of an extremely solid umbrella. The pocket knife goes flying across the remains of the Lounge’s dining floor. Jason doesn’t have to look up to know who’s stopped him exactly, but he does because why ruin the other man’s spotlight? Oz stands there, in an ironed tuxedo, cigar tucked away in the corner of his mouth and righting his Monopoly Man-esque monocle upon his nose. From this angle, Jason can see up that beak-like nose of his and count the individual hairs that stick out. A rather curious train of thought there, he’ll go ahead and blame it on the concussion he’s probably suffering.  
  
“Oz,” Jason says. “What are you doing out of your cage?”  
  
Maybe not the greatest way to start a conversation with someone after keeping them imprisoned for the past month. As prisons go, Jason gave him a rather nice one, behind one of his beloved fish tanks full of exotic fauna minus one man-eating shark named Tiny. The abuse of ironic names in Gotham is downright _criminal._ Oz, the bastard, hardly looks happy to see Jason, despite the fact Jason is clearly having a rougher go in the current situation than Oswald is. But, it seems his ire is not entirely directed at Jason.  
  
“I thought you said you had a handle on ‘im.” Oz glares up, past Jason, toward the back of Bane’s head. “He was about to stab you in the bloody back.”  
  
“ _Do you fear for my safety, Mr. Cobblepot? Do you not think me capable of weathering such a blow?”_  
  
“You know I wouldn’t feel too invincible,” Jason feels too smug not to comment. “A dog can kill a king.”  
  
His generous dollop of wisdom given free of charge is rewarded with a smack to his aching head by Oz’s ridiculous gunbrella. Or umbrun. God, no matter how you slice it a gun umbrella just sounds stupid. There is no saving that invention’s name.  
  
“ _Do you think of me like a king, young one?”_ Bane’s voice is amused. Wow. Has Nightwing ever impressed Bane before? He has to add that to his tally of impossible feats Red Hood’s done that Nightwing will never come close to. Being a zombie is number one, have fun beating that one Grayson.  
  
“No, that would mean that you, or someone else, claimed that your birthright to power had been given by divinity. Which is totally not you. Dictator, yes, that sounds right. Oh, _tyrant,_ perhaps.”  
  
“I thought Nightwing was supposed to be the chatty one,” Oswald glares down the bridge of his nose. “You’ll be a lot more tolerable when you’ve been given a Colombian necktie.”  
  
“Now _that’s_ unoriginal. Also, a little insulting? Oz, just because Bane’s first language is Spanish doesn’t mean he’s Colombian-”  
  
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Bane decides right then to drop him. A little shrug of his shoulders and Jason falls face-first onto the marble floor with a painful whack. He groans, his entire body aching all over again. It’s hard to keep silent as he’s walked over by Oz, one leather shoe using his back as a stepping stone. Since when did he become chopped liver? He’d like to speak to the manager of this place. Wait, would that be him in this case? Fuck, his head hurts.  
  
“ _I_ _s the camera ready?”_ Jason rolls onto his side. Bane has brought him to a small clearing in all of the destruction around them. To Jason’s surprise, it is his old office, fish tank prison emptied of water from a stone shard that ruptured the glass and all of its fish now dead on the carpet. His desk, still covered in bills and correspondence with members of his “totally-not-criminal-organization” group covered in a layer of ash and dirt. Nearby, aimed directly at his desk from the doorway is a RED digital camera on a tripod. A wire runs from the back of the camera along a pole to a boom microphone hanging out of view and over the desk. Kinda reminds him of a presidential broadcast from the oval office, just with a lot more post-apocalyptic vibes.  
  
“Just about, all you have to do is turn it on when you want to start. I have my boys ready to hijack the primetime slots with your message once you’ve finished.” Oz doesn’t join Bane in his cursory walk around the office. He stands back, just out of view of the camera. “Unless the Bat hasn’t been taken care of.”  
  
Oh. Well. Jason would so hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there is no way in Hell Bane just destroyed the current residence of Batman’s biggest disappointment and not expect Bruce to burst in. Where in the world does Gotham go to find all these geniuses? Bruce is just far too great an attraction for the most narcissistic, dramatic morons this side of the Atlantic Ocean.  
  
“ _My associate has already taken care of the Batman. He will be made ready to watch the message when I begin.”_ _  
__  
_“Yeah, alright,” Oz doesn’t sound confident. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather sit this one out. I already spent a month in a cell and I’m not lookin’ to do it again soon.”  
  
Bane raises a massive hand, shooing Oz away. The action is real close to what Jason might see when someone wants to keep away a particularly nosy puppy. Something Oz would not normally allow or even stand to be on the receiving end of. In fact, Jason waits for the retribution to come, even if it’s from a rather portly David waving about an umbrella at an uncaring Goliath. Nothing, however, comes, especially in regards to any sort of violence. Oz seems to deflate and close in on himself before he shambles away out of the door with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. Jason is amazed. Is that all it takes to send Oz away on any given day? Perhaps he will have to invest in some proper dog training classes in the future.  
  
But, it means one down, one enormous bastard to go. His body, after a mental check through all working organs and functioning limbs, tells him that he is still rather in a bad state. The attempted backstab might literally have been all Jason had in the tank. A problem, but plenty of things can be learned in moments of weakness. If Jason is going to be down for the foreseeable future he might as well listen carefully to send what messages he can to Bruce within Bane’s.  
  
“ _You are being rather quiet now, little one,”_ Bane gives him a cursory glance over his shoulder. _Just making sure you’re still on the ground,_ look.  
  
“Don’t take it too personally. Or actually do take it pretty personally, considering there are a number of things I’d rather be doing than participating in your latest coup. Watching paint dry or plucking every individual hair on my balls.”  
  
“ _Does Bruce Wayne encourage such vulgarity among his soldiers?”_ Bane regards Jason with far too much amusement. Now that Oz has left it seems the necessary pretense of calling Bruce “the Batman” has gone with him. Jason tries not to quirk an unamused brow at the revelation, though it seems it’s rather adamant about arching. Bane, though his face is impassive with the mask on it, radiates smugness. “ _Does it trouble you that I use your master’s name or that I know who he is to be true?”_ _  
__  
_“More or less in regards to the fact you say it as ‘Bruce Wayne’ and not just, Bruce or Mr. Wayne if you wanted to be that proper about it. Or be really obnoxious and say Mr. Bruce “The Batman” Wayne, considering your love of theatrics.” Bane turns away from Jason as he speaks, looking over the camera from where he stands, reaching out to adjust the lens. It’s hysterical, if Jason had any sense of preservation he would have tried to shut himself up the moment Bane stood above him. “I didn’t think pre-recorded televised threats were your style, Bane. Isn’t that a little too “hammy” for you?”  
  
Bane steps away from the camera. He does not approach Jason and instead meanders over to the desk where, with one great sweep of his arm, he clears it of debris and papers. “ _I am not. However, working in conjunction with another after the same resolution has taught me to be adaptable. This is what my companion wishes.”_ _  
__  
_“Oh? Is it you from another dimension? This kind of threatening seems to be right up your alley.” A companion is an unknown factor Jason doesn’t like. The majority of the Gotham rogues work alongside a plethora of paid stormtroopers--they’re about as effective as any _Star Wars_ bullet fodder--that work, most of the time, as an annoyance or predictable distraction. Comparable, really, to any number of unnamed Goombas one crushes in a _Mario_ game, with no inherent plans beyond payday. Bane wouldn’t work with someone he viewed as being equally intelligent to a common crook, they have to be similarly inclined to shows of dramatic rejection to some body of authority, government, or private organization. That being said, it could very well be someone that offered Bane his own upheaval of Gotham’s existing hierarchy for something much simpler.  
  
Jason doesn’t like variables.  
  
Though he is untied Bane does not try to stop him from moving. Whatever Bane thinks Jason will do, is not terrifying enough of a threat. Jason has a gun in this office, taped beneath the underside of the table. Bane wants to use it, or he’s resorted to frustratedly throwing around papers because he’s ten-years-old. The desk is a part of whatever show he’s planned to put on, so he shouldn’t be too angry if Jason starts tentatively crawling over. Running away is probably not a feasible option, not right now, not wounded with Bane and Penguin in play.  
  
“I feel like we have a very unequal standing in our captive-captor relationship here. Maybe we can bring in a therapist or a third party to talk it out? I appreciate honesty in every volatile hostage situation.” Balancing on his good leg, Jason starts to limp his way toward the desk. Bane ignores him, over-confident no doubt. It gives Jason enough arrogance to push on, making sure to approach the other side of the desk, further from Bane.  
  
Jason keeps talking when Bane returns his rambling with silence. “You know there are a lot of nicer places you can hold a press briefing. Have you tried the Oval Office? No? How about an abandoned warehouse off corner streets “Fuck” and “You?”  
  
Bane watches Jason, straightening up. “ _Gotham is not a priority. A direct attack on its spine is needed, then it will be able to do nothing but watch as the hungry ants of this city consume it.”_ _  
__  
_He doesn’t have the same benefit of a mask that Bane does, so the scrunched up look on his face is obvious. “You know, it kind of gets old when you talk about the one insane thing you did over and over. We get it, you broke Batman’s back. Damn, is this how everyone else feels when I talk about dying?”  
  
Close to the corner of the desk now, Bane steps away from it. Instead, he walks back over to the camera where it sits on its tripod. Whatever kind of conversation they were having before is over, obviously. Bane doesn’t have the same desire to humor former Robins as other Gotham crime bosses. It’s a shame, there is nothing better than watching Harvey Dent go red in the face as he argues pointless politics with a fourteen-year-old in sequin green spandex. Nevertheless, Jason is done playing stand-up with Bane.  
  
Someone else is in play aiming to get Bruce. He needs to take care of that.  
  
Bane turns the camera on about the same time Jason reaches under the desk, quickly groping along the flat bottom. His fingers skim the straps used to hold the gun in place and turn up with nothing. Alarmed, but not panicking (yet), Jason pushes his hand further back, ducking his head under the table to try and see if it fell on the floor during the explosion. His search comes up with nothing, just empty space, and a glassy-eyed fish.  
  
 _“You gave Cobblepot an unimpeded view of your inner sanctum and expected him not to disarm the traps you set in front of him?”_ Bane’s footfalls are heavy across the floor. With nothing else to use, Jason grabs his chair from where it’s fallen on the floor. Throwing it at Bane takes a monumental amount of fleeting strength Jason does not have. It smacks across his chest and falls, nothing to the giant if not an errant fly. “ _Your arrogance is almost as blinding as your mentor’s.”_ _  
__  
__“_ Yeah, well, I am prone to being a total disappointment. Join the club.” He tries to keep the desk between them, far enough out of Bane’s reach to waste time. It’s then his strength flags, worn down and fighting the mental fog from a concussion, he goes left when he should go right. Bane snatches him up by the back of his shirt collar and holds him off the floor, dangling like a frail kitten. A moment later, Bane reaches down to his waist and pulls a long knife free of its sheath on his belt. Wonderful, death, at least it will be simple this time.  
  
“If you think killing me is going to render Batman inconsolable, I’m going to have to be the bearer of bad news.” The tip of the blade, razor-sharp, lightly touches the hollow of his throat. He dare not swallow unless he wants to make a third-hole to spit gum out of. “I’ll see you on the other side.”  
  
Bane merely tilts his head to the side, bemused. “ _I have not come seeking to extinguish your life today. Perhaps another time, sooner than either of us know.”_ _  
__  
_Cryptic bullshit aside, Jason weighs talking with the knife pressed to his throat before Bane slices it down in one quick swoop. Jason gasps, jolting slightly as the tip leaves a scratch as thin as a strand of hair down his chest. It neatly cuts through the front of his tie and shirt, the front of his pants catch on the serrated edge partway down. Bane tears the knife back and free, before putting it back in its sheath. Then he regards the camera.  
  
 _“It should go without saying. Batman, the sole responsibility for what happens now falls upon your shoulders.”_ _  
__  
_Jason tries to argue that with the definition of free will and the implication that if what he is doing is Bruce’s fault does this mean Bane admits he is without self-thought despite his philosophical ramblings, but never gets that far. Instead, he gets about as far as opening his mouth only to clamp it shut again when Bane sits down on the edge of the desk, placing Jason directly on his lap facing the blinking light of the camera.  
  
“What are you doing?” His voice does not shake. It does _not._  
  
“ _Batman is a dealer in death, threatening to kill a loved one would be pointless.”_ Bane settles Jason on one massive thigh. Jason goes to raise his arms, he goes to shove them back or claw at Bane’s mask. They are easily caught in one enormous palm. The other hand pushes apart the torn pieces of Jason’s shirt exposing his chest. _“It is easier to mourn and swallow himself alive in a sea of his own guilt. Easily adjustable. He does not do well with the damaged living. What better way to send a message than to humiliate the delicate lost son?”_ _  
__  
_Jason fights to yank his arms free. Bane doesn’t seem to notice, free hand trailing across the exposed skin of Jason’s chest. One finger traces along the white lines of scar tissue gnarled and raised slightly. He finds the Y-incision from Jason’s autopsy scar and follows it down across his abdomen. Jason starts to pant, pushing back against Bane’s solid chest to escape the finger.  
  
“You-Bane this isn’t _you-”_ _  
__  
_“ _What is anyone? We are not merely the collection of an unbending combination of various ideals. We transmute ourselves throughout our lives at the merciless will of an uncaring society.”_ Bane draws his hand away, merely to grab the back of Jason’s jacket and shirt to yank it down. Jason gasps, feeling the fabric bunch up around his wrists where Bane holds them. There, Bane ties the excess fabric together, leaving no room for Jason to even flex his fingers. The feeling is akin to that of a straight jacket. Jason starts to hyperventilate.  
  
Bane smoothes a hand down his chest, across his heart. The blinking light of the camera seems to grow ever brighter, so Jason looks away, at the corners of the office ceiling. “I’m not having a stupid _“we are a society”_ debate with you.”  
  
“ _N_ _o. But you will not stay silent either.”_ Jason doesn’t have to inquire how Bane expects him to talk. Not when Bane’s newly freed hand pushes down the torn opening of Jason’s slacks to grab his cock.  
  
His cock doesn’t have the mental forethought to read the room when a giant hand encloses around it. It feels the warmth and human touch it hasn’t felt in a long time and, well, _hello there._ Jason knows that physical stimulation isn’t equal to logical thought or that excitement is indicative of consent. Of course, he knows that. Shame, however, doesn’t seem to mind shutting down Jason’s attempt to reason with himself. If he’s excited he must, in some way, like this.  
  
“Get off me-” Jason throws his head back. All it earns him is a flash of pain that flushes him with nausea. Unfortunately, concussions seem to grow worse with repeated head trauma. Growling, he tears at his arms in their confines, snarling louder when nothing budges. His voice doesn’t come out as angry as he would like, far too soft and breathless by Bane’s touch. His cock is in full view of the camera now, hard and flushed pink with blood. “Get the fuck off.”  
  
“ _Fascinating how such a small action can take away that impressive tongue of yours. I wonder, how long has it been since you have heard your son speak with genuine fear?”_  
  
Gritting his teeth, Jason hisses out a soft moan, Bane’s large fingers rolling the soft flesh of his balls. Muscles tightening, Jason bites his tongue and lets his head fall back on Bane’s shoulder, trembling with every delicate brush of skin. Writhing around, Jason wishes the bastard had gagged him. The sounds that fall from his mouth are obscene, echoing off the blown apart walls just faintly muffled by distant traffic.  
  
No sirens, however. Looks like the police won’t be staging an intervention on his behalf. Jason knows he’s partly to blame for that.  
  
 _“I wonder what is on your mind now, Batman. If you are colored red with anger, foaming at the mouth as my companion watches in silence beside you. Or, perhaps,”_ two big hands settle on Jason’s thighs. Lifting Jason up, just enough for a small inch of space between them, Bane leans Jason against his chest for leverage and yanks down his slacks. “ _You are jealous of me.”_ _  
__  
_Jason burns, the empty lens of the camera staring right at him. There are a lot of ways he has been used against Bruce in the past, that was part of being Robin. But this? Nothing has ever come close to _this._ Bane’s comment tears open frightening wounds Jason does not even remember receiving, silently festering on him since childhood. The humiliation that comes when you are too young to earn money but never too young to trade for it.  
  
“Stop-Stop fucking touching me,” Jason kicks his feet back. They hit the desk and sometimes Bane’s meaty calf but nothing stops Bane from leaning back, taking Jason with him. Exposing him and his hole to the all-seeing eye of the camera.  
  
“ _Have you ever enjoyed the spoils of war? I know you keep trophies in your private sanctum. No one is immune to the thrill that comes from the memory of a defeated enemy. Not even you.”_ Bane skims a hand down Jason’s thigh, chuckling at the way Jason jumps beneath him. “ _I know how much you enjoyed winning, if not, would you have taken as many lovers who were against your ideals as you have done?”_ _  
__  
_The comparison is almost as bizarre as the rest of this entire situation. Bane is comparing a giant penny to Bruce’s romps with any number of women with slightly dubious morals. That’s called a character flaw Mr. Bane, not an indication of a war-hungry egoist that likes to get his rocks off dominating others. That’s the argument that Jason starts off with, but then how would that explain every other woman that’s worked alongside Bruce only to fall into bed with him after a case? There are far too many to count, something that Jason realizes isn’t something he has to look far beyond the cave for.  
  
Barbara and her hero-worship. Jason was like that too. How high he’d jump if Bruce asked. It’s not hard to imagine a different kind of relationship if Mr. Jason Todd had instead been a _Miss_ Jay Todd.  
  
There is no time to dwell on that. No time to let himself spiral into a negative thought avalanche where he’ll drown in hypothetical misery when Bane pokes at his hole with one massive finger. Jason’s eyes widen, consuming blue with terrified black, as it pushes inside. Mouth falling open in shock, a pained exhale wheezes out of him.  
  
“Wait- _stop.”_ _  
__  
__“There is nothing that can be done to end this. It is time for your master to lie in the bed he’s made.”_ _  
__  
__Yeah, but I don’t remember signing up for this kind of treatment!_ Jason grits his teeth, brows pinched together as the initial burn from the dry finger begins to ache. When it comes to sexual stimulation, he’s always been curious, but far too scared and busy to try and indulge his internal questioning. Partners have been few and far between and his bedroom experience is about as exciting as missionary with the lights off can be. Cavity searches by Blackgate guards is the only assplay he’s participated in and Bane’s one finger might as well be two and a half of a normal-sized man’s.  
  
They also had lube and were somewhat careful. Bane is not. Worse still is that Jason’s arousal is still prominent and visible to the camera.  
  
“Not _nnh, n-_ not even going to do me the courtesy of proper prep with lube?”  
  
“ _Do you think that is something you deserve after what you have done?”_ Done, as in try and prevent himself from being sexually assaulted by a giant three times his size after his building had been bombed? That seems kind of redundant to ask. Bane seems to sense his mental opposition and cruelly crooks his finger. Jason keens aloud.  
  
“ _You kept Oswald Cobblepot in solitary confinement for a month with little food and water, but a perfect view of everything else. I have no mouth and I must scream is an apt description of his situation, do you not agree?”_ _  
__  
_“I don’t think this is better by any stretch- _ah!”_ A second finger breaches, dry and impossibly big. Jason blinks back tears, choking on a desperate whine as he tries to pull free.  
  
“ _Quiet now, pajarito. You will want to save your breath for what comes next.”_ _  
__  
__Don’t tell me what to do, I’ll talk as much as I want._ He can’t. There are no words that come to mind that will destroy Bane’s resolve to keep up such a terrible act and tempt him into violence Jason is used to. Sexual violence is not something Jason has been trained to withstand, nor is it something he is able to confront openly. The fingers scissoring him apart are merciless and mean. Between the pain from the punishing drag of dry fingers against his hot inner walls comes the worst, sparks of pleasure. Again, Jason tries to reason with himself that physical stimulation is something that acts without conscious decision.  
  
He fails to convince himself, however, that it is not his fault.  
  
After a moment of silence, broken apart only by his panting and choked gasps, Bane finally withdraws his fingers. For one moment Jason hopes against hope that the message Bane wanted Bruce to see is at its conclusion. That does not happen. Bane merely draws that hand back behind Jason, fumbling around with something, before a new heat presses against the skin of his back. Jason goes pale when his brain finally makes sense of what it is.  
  
“Stop, _no,_ there’s no way- _Bane, please.”_ _  
__  
__“You would be surprised at what the human body is capable of doing. There is no escaping your fate today.”_  
  
The head of Bane’s cock is about half the size of Jason’s fist, fat and leaking against the base of Jason’s spine. He flails around, trying to wriggle free of the hold Bane has on him, but a giant hand on his chest pins him easily. Jason can feel the wet drag of the tip down his cheeks, across the cleft of his ass, as it slides up between his thighs. Catching a glimpse of it as it prods the base of Jason’s balls, he groans at the starting width and wheezes out a soft curse.  
  
Tearing isn’t a possibility, it is a probability. There is no way he will not be split apart by such a thing. A stray tear slips down his cheek and Bane coos.  
  
 _“Do not be afraid. I will make it quick.”_ _  
__  
_With a cock like that the proper pace for a consensual session would be slow-as-fucking-molasses. It would take hours of prep to be somewhat ready to take such a large prick in your body. Jason got several minutes of half-hearted fingering. The thought of that thing inside him makes him dizzy.  
  
“Bane-”  
  
He can’t finish. Bane is done humoring any partial conversation. It takes the length of a breath for Bane to draw his cock back with a hand and press it against his hole. Nothing prepares Jason for how it feels to be breached by what might as well be the equivalent of a damn oversized Coke bottle. When the head of Bane’s cock pops inside he can’t stop the scream that leaves his throat.  
  
Bane purrs behind him. Jason wonders what Bruce might be thinking when he sees this tape. Will he be ashamed of himself? For failing to stop Jason’s torture a second time? Will he shake his head and lament Jason’s inability to keep himself out of all kinds of trouble? He can’t focus on what imagined response Bruce might have. Being torn apart by a cock seems to have that effect on his mental state, all that he can really think about is every inch of dick pushing inside him. Just how long does the bastard measure? An eternity passes and Bane is still not even halfway inside.  
  
“I can’t _I can’t, nnn, nono_ no please, please stop-” Jason whines, dropping his head back against the firm expanse of Bane’s chest. He can hardly manage a deep breath, lungs incapable of expanding completely with that thing inside him. The worst of it comes when the thickest part pushes against the dry rim of his hole, caught on nothing. Forcing himself to try and relax, he tears at the clothes around his hands, mouth open with a desperate wail. The pain doesn’t ease, but his arousal starts to flag and that’s enough of a relief that he can take.  
  
However, his body’s noncompliance is not what Bane has in mind. No sooner has his cock started to soften does Bane take him into his hand again. While the burn in his lower body is unbearable the small amount of sensation that his cock receives is enough to keep his toes curling in his shoes. Jason sobs, turning his head to bury his face into Bane’s arm.  
  
“What, _nn-ahh!”_ Jason bites down on skin, hard enough to taste blood. “What do you want?”  
  
 _“I want your master to see you broken, unable to stop your body from taking pleasure as it is conquered by your superior.”_ Bane wants him to come. The bastard wants him to finish on camera and send it to Bruce, wrapped up in a nice digital bow. Jason snarls, no more vicious than a month-old puppy. Terror begins to eat at his stomach.  
  
“Don’t-”  
  
“ _You have spat denials at me since I began. None have stopped me. You cannot stop a bullet once it is fired. You should know all about that, Jason.”_ Jason arches his back, Bane’s fat finger stroking the hot, puckered skin of his hole. Shivering, Jason lets out a silent keen as Bane’s cock finally sinks inside completely.  
  
There is no way he can move. Bane’s cock is so fat, so long, any slight move or clench renders Jason immobile from an onslaught of full-body shivers. Something warm and slick gathers around the base of Bane’s cock and Jason panics thinking he might have wet himself without realizing. That’s not it, it’s blood. Bane’s truly torn him apart. Fucked him open and raw with that telephone-pole cock, all he can do is twitch while Bane strokes him through the ache. The worst of it all is how his cock jumps in Bane’s palm from the attention, a pearl of precum bubbling out of his slit.  
  
He whines. Bane then starts to move.  
  
Dizzy, Jason buries his face into Bane’s arm, hiding from the camera. There’s a wet slick noise as Bane’s cock slides out of him, courtesy of Bane wrapping one tree-trunk thick arm around his waist and lifting him up. The pull leaves Jason breathless and mouthing half-formed words into Bane’s skin. A moment later Bane’s cock head catches on the taut rim of his hole then Bane lowers him back down. Jason wails, legs falling open wider as if to somehow ease the pressure. It only heightens, blood pounding in Jason’s skull as he is pulled open again.  
  
“A-Ahh,” eyes fluttering shut, Jason drools against Bane, balls tightening. Somehow, despite everything, Bane manages to thrust up just right and Jason sees stars.  
  
“ _So pliant now, if only Batman knew this was a good way to silence that tongue.”_ Jason can’t argue with that, words are far too great a challenge to form.  
  
There is no stopping Bane now. Initial resistance gone and blood slicking the way, Bane fucks Jason in earnest, snarling into the fabric of his mask. He takes what he wants, finally, seeking his pleasure as he bounces Jason on his lap. Jason is not forgotten, Bane continues to stroke his cock with almost obscene meticulousness, making sure that every inch is worshipped over and over again. His prostate suffers from a continual and unrelenting assault, that leaves Jason painfully overwhelmed by the tidal wave of raw sensation. It makes him weep openly, cock leaking under the unblinking eye of the camera.  
  
When the end comes, Jason finishes first, as Bane wants. The combined assault on his cock and prostate leaves little room for denying oncoming orgasm. Jason merely keens a soft protest, nothing more than a broken mewl, before thick globs of cum spurt from him only to be swallowed by Bane’s palm. Bane stops fucking him, settling Jason on his lap and then very slightly bumping the head of his cock against Jason’s prostate. It’s too much at once, Jason, squirms in Bane’s hold, whining desperately for relief Bane does not allow him, all he can do is cum through hard after-shocks, milked dry by Bane’s hand.  
  
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, panting pathetically as he can’t draw in a full breath. Shaking, Jason jumps when Bane shifts, oversensitive nerves burning at the push of his cock, drawing the hand off his cock. The hand, covered in Jason’s release, is then offered to Jason’s mouth.  
  
That is far too humiliating an act for Jason to consider. He shakes his head. _No. Please, no._ _  
__  
_A deep chuckle rumbles in his ear. “ _I have given you your finish. Now you will grant me mine.”_ _  
__  
_Apparently, just being inside Jason is not enough to get Bane to come. No. For the average person, having your dick inside something warm and tight is usually enough to reach some kind of climax. Bane, however, stands up, holding Jason against him with that one arm wrapped around his waist. The shift in position lasts as long as it takes for Bane to move to the side of the desk and let Jason then fall forward. Slamming down, chest and face meeting the table first, Bane places one hand between Jason’s shoulders to pin him down. The other, still wet with cum, slaps across Jason’s mouth.  
  
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what kind of partner Bane normally is. Jason is glad the camera’s viewfinder isn’t facing them, he doesn’t think he could withstand seeing himself as he is now.  
  
“ _You are much greater a treasure than I first imagined. I hope, Batman, you are not too envious that I have enjoyed him first.”_ _  
__  
_Bane is merciless. Jason quickly understands that everything that had happened before was for his benefit. The degradation of actually taking pleasure in this horrifying display of dominance had been carefully executed. Bane had been holding back, far more than Jason had originally assumed. Now, no longer dependent on Jason, he makes no effort to give Jason the small amount of gentleness he had shown before. His cock seems larger, now that it rends him open by fucking him fast and hard. Every now and then that giant dick hits his prostate with the ferocity and bite of a blade’s tip. Now oversensitive there is nothing pleasurable to take from it, Jason screams behind Bane’s massive hand. That only serves to get his own cum smeared across his tongue. Just as Bane hoped.  
  
It lasts far longer than Jason knew it could. Bane is relentless and hungry, forcing his heavy weight on Jason’s back. The pace never lasts for long, always dragging Jason back into the moment every time he tries to hide in the back of his mind. Every push rubs his chest raw against the desk until his skin burns and splits from the pressure. For a while, Jason thinks he actually might die from being fucked to death, when his voice breaks from screaming and the mindless white noise of rush hour traffic trickles in through the broken roof. No one is going to save him, just like all those years ago.  
  
Then it’s over. A rush of burning heat explodes suddenly within him and inflames the tears Bane’s left. It is hardly any more painful than anything else over the course of this assault but Jason weeps, loud and agonized now that it is over and his bravado has finally abandoned him.  
  
Bane pulls out and something wet immediately begins dripping down Jason’s thighs. He shivers, cold and exposed as Bane steps back and then, surprisingly, away. Cum smeared across his mouth, bleeding and crying over the desk, Jason looks back to see where Bane has gone. The man is there, behind him, now holding the camera. The lens is pointed down below Jason’s waist, focusing on his puffy and red hole.  
  
Unable to curl in on himself, Jason buries his head into the desk.  
  
 _“You will leave Gotham tonight. My companion will accompany you and leave you in a predetermined location outside of the United States. If you do not follow his instructions, this video will be aired publicly on all available network channels. Then I will make a second one, just for you. If you are a good boy and leave within the hour of watching this, I will let the boy go. If not, or anything happens to my companion, I will continue to destroy what little dignity he has left.”_ _  
__  
_Across Gotham, Bruce Wayne walks up the steps to his front door, completely unaware of the destruction of the Iceberg Lounge. When he reaches the door it is not Alfred that greets him, but Thomas Wayne.  
  
His father smiles at him. “There’s something I need to show you.”


End file.
